|
"They do."
"Nobody could believe you paid half a million quid for some guy who turned up to matches on a camel. Did he really do that, by the way?"
"Only home games. They have a bus for away games." He drained his glass and put it down on the breakfast counter. "You know what's really unique about Zlobtnov Yorovonko?"
"Lots of things. His height for one thing. Six foot, eight. And his speed. His control."
"No, no."
"His left foot shot?"
"No, you're missing the point. The really unique thing about Zlobtnov Yorovonko, the thing that made me notice him, that made me happily fork out half a million quid and call it a bargain is that his name has six "o"s and no other vowels. That, Jimmy, is truly unique."
He threw his cigarette in the sink and we watched it fizzle when he turned on the tap.
"Let me get this straight, Mr. McKean. You signed Yorovonko because of the vowels in his name?"
"Yup."
"Not his left foot shot? Or the fact he's built like Ben Nevis?"
"Nope."
"You're a loony."
He smiled over his glass. "Nope."
I shrugged. He grabbed the bottle of Bells put his hand on my shoulder and steered me back to the table. We sat down, and he leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Ah, Jim Lad. You press boys never cease to amaze me. Your snouts are stuck so deep in the shit, you don't even see what's going on right in front of your bloody faces."
"I'm afraid I don't...."
"Look, I didn't just find out yesterday that I..." He plucked another cigarette from the packet and lit it. "You know when I was diagnosed?"
"No."
"A week after I took the Rangers job. Bloody brilliant, eh?"
I said nothing.
"Yes, well. I was not pleased, I can tell you. There I was sitting with the best-paid job in football. Made for life. A couple of years of inevitable success, beating up the Motherwells and Dunfermlines of the world. If anyone beat us, just buy all their players and stick them in the reserves. Maybe a couple of European triumphs, then easy street. Off to Spain with pockets jingling. Then wham! It's all gone. Finito. 'I'm afraid we have some bad news, Mr. McKean. Two years at best.' It's a fucking shitter, Jimmy."
I nodded. I could see how it was, indeed, a fucking shitter.
|
|
